The Conspiracy
by TheSapphireSky
Summary: Five acquaintances gather together and scheme to bring Sherlock and Molly together. But with Molly moving away and Sherlock refusing to fight for her, their meddling may be too late.
1. The M Conspiracy

On a normal, dreary London morning, five chilled and somewhat forlorn friends were gathered in a small café on the outskirts of the city. The establishment was nearly empty, dirty windows and cracking paint creating an atmosphere of 'up-to-no-good.'

Two middle-aged men and three women of varying ages sat tightly around a table, each cradling a cup of hot tea or coffee to fight off the bitter chill from the drafty door.

'It's true,' the bespectacled man sighed. 'She's already given me her notice.'

The younger woman nodded in resignation, 'Her flat is packed and her landlord has already gotten another tenant. She's out at the end of the month.'

The other man remained silent, but raised an eyebrow in thought.

The two older women exchanged worried looks.

'I'd say it would be best for the both of them, but…' the younger woman trailed off tellingly.

'But you've seen how they are when the other isn't around. No other word for it; heartbroken,' the man with the glasses finished for her. The rest nodded in agreement, aside from the still motionless man.

'So what do we do about it?' One of the older women asked, looking around the group.

The silent man slowly reached into the pocket of his suit, pulling out a notebook. With confident aplomb, he cleared his throat and flipped to the first page.

'I'm glad you asked.'


	2. Mike

**Mike**

If there was one thing Mike Stamford knew he was hopelessly awful at, it was acting. At the risk of sounding self-important, he considered himself far too kind and honest to commit any form of subterfuge. Not to mention, the last time he tried to get anything past his wife, he slept on that god-awful sofa for a week.

But this time was different. This was for the greater good.

Taking a deep breath, he picked up his office phone.

Showtime.

* * *

Molly groaned as her mobile started playing a lively jig. Navigating the cardboard ocean that was once her lounge, she scrambled to grab the vibrating phone on the kitchen counter.

She frowned at the caller ID. Mike Stamford.

Her last day was yesterday. And she had been sure to finish up all the paperwork and clear out her office before she left.

So why would Mike be calling?

'Hi, Mike,' she answered, a cheerful, yet confused note in her tone.

'Oh, Molly, thank goodness! Listen, I need you to come in,' Mike burst out, nearly breathless.

She started in surprise, 'Mike… Um, I-I'm not employed at Bart's anymore, I can't-'

'HR hasn't processed your paperwork, yet,' Mike interrupted frantically, 'so you're still legally allowed to work here, and we desperately need you down here. The temporary pathologist hasn't shown and there's no one to supervise the interns and we're legally obligated to provide them with lab access-'

'Alright, fine, fine,' Molly sighed. 'I'll be there in… twenty minutes? Okay?'

Mike breathed a shaky sigh of relief, 'Thank you, Molly. The receptionist has your badge, and your access codes should still work. Thanks again!'

Molly hummed a goodbye and ended the call.

Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths. She'd already come to terms with leaving her position at Bart's. And here she was, being thrust right back in without enough time to even move on.

With one last sigh, she grabbed her bag and made the familiar trek to St. Bart's.

* * *

John Watson had seen many strange sights in his life. Between his time as an army doctor and his adventures with Sherlock Holmes to marrying a former assassin, he fully believed nothing would ever surprise him.

Then again, a gloomy Sherlock Holmes was an anomaly, something nobody could have possibly foreseen.

For three weeks, the detective had not spoken outside of anything case related. His violin tucked under his chin, the drawn-out, melancholy melodies torn from its strings, however, spoke volumes.

John had tried to get Sherlock to explain exactly what was wrong, but Sherlock had merely huffed and plopped onto the sofa like a sulking adolescent.

So there they sat, Sherlock curled up on himself and John tapping his hands against the arms of his chair, anticipating their next case. John was beginning to grow agitated from sitting still. It was his day off from the clinic and Mary had nearly shoved him out the door, demanding some quiet time alone with the baby. Something that she couldn't have with John pacing mindlessly around the house, trying to find something to do.

It was a great relief to the blogger when a muffled ringing came from the sofa area.

'Finally,' he exhaled.

Several seconds passed and neither moved. Rolling his eyes, John rose from his chair and leaned over the pouting detective. He pulled the mobile from dressing gown's pocket, shooting Sherlock a practiced, 'disappointed father' look.

'Hello,' John answered.

'John? It's Mike,' the muffled voice on the other end sounded rushed. 'Listen, could you bring Sherlock round the lab?'

'Is it a case?'

At the question, Sherlock's ears perked up and he turned slightly to eye John over his shoulder.

Mike sighed, 'In a way. There's this compound found at the scene of a burglary the new techs aren't able to identify. We thought Sherlock could lend a hand, instead of sending it out. Save everybody some time, you know.'

'Sure, I'll bring him around,' John said and hung up. By now Sherlock had sat up and was blatantly staring at John.

'You'd better put on some clothes, mate,' John tossed the phone at him, 'Mike's got something you'll want to look at down at Bart's, his new lab techs found something interesting.'

Instead of the spark of interest John expected to see, Sherlock's shoulders seemed to droop ever so slightly and a small frown line appeared between his brows, vanishing almost instantly.

With a burdened sigh, the detective rose gracefully and stomped over the coffee table, 'Very well. But Mike should reconsider who he hires,' he called as he made his way to his room, 'the overturn of employees at Bart's is quite high and their quality is abysmally low.'

The bedroom door slammed behind him and, for what felt like the thousandth time, John rolled his eyes.

* * *

The halls of St. Bart's seemed somewhat emptier, less… happy.

Sherlock brushed off the unwanted feeling and strong armed his way through the doors leading to the lab. Ridiculous to associate a building with a person. The lack of Molly Hooper should have no bearing on his interest in whatever was in that lab.

But some distant heart string pulled taught at the thought that yesterday had been her final day.

Feelings. Regret, sadness, loss. Everything he didn't want to feel began to spread tendrils of emotion around his chest, tightening it until he became short of breath.

But with the practiced efficiency of a man who had been burying his emotions for decades, he composed himself and brusquely entered the lab.

Two techs were buzzing about with vials and papers, Mike standing watch. Sherlock's eyes immediately narrowed as he took in the man's nervous hand-wringing and slight sweat around the hairline. Behind his glasses, Mike's eyes were flicking around the room, but always returned to the door behind Sherlock and John.

'Mike,' John greeted, stepping forward and shaking his hand.

'Thanks for coming,' Mike said, a slight shake to his normally jovial tone. 'The samples are over there.' He gestured to the far microscope. Sherlock stared at him for a moment longer, but his curiosity over the samples overruled his curiosity over Mike's suspicious behaviour and he swept over to the table.

As he began examining the slides, he barely registered Mike leaving the lab. Within minutes, his suspicions were once more raised when he realized the samples, which would be confusing to an amateur, were easily identified by a practiced eye, even the somewhat moronic techs working nearby.

Just as he raised his head to tell John, the lab doors opened and a flustered Molly Hooper rushed in. Her hair was pulled back in a haphazard bun, tendrils falling out from the blustery London wind. She was busy buttoning up her lab coat that she didn't notice the other occupants of the room at first.

'Molly!' John exclaimed. She jerked her head up in surprise.

'Oh, hi John,' her gaze flicked behind him to lock onto Sherlock. She swallowed thickly and seemed caught between paralysis and fleeing the room entirely.

'I thought you'd taken a job out in Edinburgh? Mary said you had already left,' he asked as he pulled her stiff body into a hug.

Sherlock felt his heart beat thunderously as she stared back at him over John's shoulder.

'Yeah, well, Mike called me in for one last favour,' she forced a smile as she pulled away. Looking around, she frowned. 'I'm supposed to be supervising the interns. I just passed Mike in the hall and he said they were in here.'

The pieces immediately fell into place. Mike was trying to play matchmaker, forcing them to be in the same room and talk about what happened. Well, damn him, Sherlock was not a puppet and he would not be played by Mike Stamford and most assuredly not by Molly Hooper.

Sherlock shoved away from the table forcefully, 'Obviously, they are not.'

John and Molly flinched as his stool clashed to the ground, the metal sound reverberating off the walls.

'There is no reason for you to be here, Doctor Hooper. Mike was mistaken. You'd best be off to Edinburgh,' he nearly growled at the name, but the thought of Molly actually leaving caused a rush of foreign chemicals into his mind and it was all he could do to control his transport from grabbing her and handcuffing her to the door until she promised to stay.

He shook his head at the thought, hardening his heart once more against the long-ago emotions that were pushing their way out of their graves.

With a curt nod in Molly's general direction, he stepped around her and stalked out of the lab.

* * *

Mike watched from an alcove down the hall as Sherlock nearly stormed from the lab, a confused and somewhat angry John shouting questions after him.

Several moments passed and the door opened once more. Molly stepped into the hall quietly, her lab coat folded over her arm. She stood outside the lab for a moment, brushing a hand across her cheeks and the sound of a sniffle reached Mike's ears.

He felt his heart clench at the knowledge that the plan had not only failed, but had caused Molly more pain.

But with a quiet strength he'd always known she carried, Molly finally straightened her shoulders and walked away.

Sighing, Mike sent off a quick text.

**Attempt 1. Failure.**

Within seconds, his phone beeped with a reply.

**Understood.**


	3. Mary

**Mary**

Having left behind her rather shady past when she met John, the temptation to employ her training was growing greater with every passing second as Mary Watson glared across the room. Her target: one tall, lithe, robe-clad consulting detective. His weapon of choice: a defenseless, rather pricey Stradivarius violin. His intent: clearly to drive her to the brink of insanity by drawing his bow across the taut strings in harsh strokes.

How baby Claire slept through that racket in her carry-cot by the door was a mystery even Sherlock wouldn't be able to solve.

But in the battle of fierce staring, Mary wasn't wearing down. She'd been through far worse torture during her missions.

Sherlock quirked an eye at her over his violin and played a particularly caterwauling chord.

Then again, she'd been through easier torture.

Finally, Sherlock rolled his eyes and put the bow on the table beside him. 'You clearly have come here with a purpose and not to merely engage me in a futile and juvenile staring contest.'

Mary smirked. 'You're just sore because you caved first.'

'I did not cave.' He sniffed haughtily at the mere insinuation.

'Mmmhmmm.' She quirked an eyebrow knowingly.

He sighed. 'Just tell me why you have forced your presence and that of your spawn upon me for the past hour?'

'Am I not allowed to simply bring my daughter around to visit her Godfather?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. 'You have never done so before, unless John accompanied you.'

Mary smiled deeply at his deduction. 'John's working a double shift at the clinic. I thought it was about time you and I had a little chat, Mr. Holmes.'

Sherlock shifted minutely in his seat, but Mary's trained eyes caught the movement indicative of discomfort.

'What is there to chat about, Mrs. Watson?' He rolled his eyes in a juvenile manner as he sneered, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair impatiently.

She took a deep breath and leaned forward, dropping all pretense of friendliness. 'Molly.'

Sherlock froze for a fraction of a second. Were it not for the slightly increased rhythm of his blinking and the almost indiscernible stuttering of his tapping fingers, Mary would have concluded that he had no feelings about the situation whatsoever.

But her womanly intuition, compounded by decades of black ops training, was justified in that blink of an eye.

Sherlock was not unaffected by Molly's leaving.

Up to this point, Mary had not been certain of Sherlock's feelings for the pathologist. Her conclusions had all been conjecture, based on his distancing himself from any case homicide-related that would press him to visit the morgue, as well as the almost sorrowful softening around his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and sighed heavily as he turned his head away, 'I had hoped this ridiculous idea that I harbor sentiment for someone who is barely a tolerable acquaintance would have dissipated by now.'

Mary smiled, 'I think thou doth protest too much.'

'I am not protesting, merely stating a fact.' He stared dispassionately at her.

She sighed in fond exasperation. 'And yet, all signs point toward an emotional attachment. You are very good at deducing everyone around you. But tell me, Mister Detective Man, have you ever deduced yourself?'

He narrowed his eyes at her and tilted his head.

Just then, Claire began fussing. Her cries increased and Mary quickly rose to comfort her. As she held her daughter to her chest and soothed her, Mary glanced at the Consulting Detective. He had steepled his hands under his chin in thought, giving no mind to his goddaughter's distress.

As Claire settled down and began playing happily with her mother's shirt collar, Mary returned to her place on the sofa, cradling her close.

'Sherlock,' she spoke quietly, 'Whatever you believe about love, have you ever considered that maybe you're wrong?'

Immediately, Sherlock's gaze flew to hers and he very nearly sneered in reproach. 'I am never wrong.'

'"There's always something I miss",' she quoted softly. His frown softened slightly. 'Why not think about it logically? All the benefits of sentiment versus its detractors,' she suggested. 'Maybe you'll find that love isn't as foolhardy as you believe it to be.'

Silence descended between them as Claire gurgled happily, her hands pressing against Mary's cheeks. When it became apparent that Sherlock had retreated deep into his Mind Palace, Mary made to leave.

Once Claire was settled in her stroller and the cot packed away, Mary leaned over the detective and placed a fond kiss on his forehead.

'Remember that Molly's love for you is what saved your life. And the lives of those dearest to you.'

If he heard her, he gave no indication, but Mary left the flat confident that she had played her part well.

**Attempt 2, Phase 1 complete.**

Almost as soon as the text was sent, she received a reply.

**Acknowledged. Phase 2 begins tomorrow.**


	4. Mary: Phase II

Bundled against the biting cold, Molly bustled into the warm coffee shop. The familiar smells and sounds embraced her and she felt a rush of regret, knowing this would be the last time she would step inside the familiar café once she boarded her flight to Edinburgh the following morning. The cheery barista greeted her by name and immediately began whipping up Molly's usual latte as Molly glanced around for a seat.

The low table in the front corner was miraculously free and she immediately dropped into the plush chair with a heavy sigh. London traffic bustled by with its normal urgency, cabs weaving in and out of traffic, Londoners and travelers garbed in thick coats and scarves walked briskly past, their heads bent down against the wind.

Inside the coffee shop, several tables were occupied by students, typing desperately on their laptops and tablets. Others were immersed in quiet conversation. All were content to be there, comfortable in the piece of silence amidst an often chaotic city.

Soft piano music played in the background, the melancholy tune plucking her already taut heartstrings. Molly blinked back the sudden rush of tears and forced a smile as the barista placed the foaming mug on the table in front of her.

'Thanks,' she said quietly. Cradling the mug in her hands, she leaned back in the chair and watched the world she was leaving behind, a bitter farewell that she faced with regret. The hot liquid did nothing to soothe the ache in her heart, but it did warm her extremities.

Lattes weren't the medicine for healing broken hearts, especially one so beaten down and battered as hers. Time was.

She only hoped it wasn't too late for her to find someone who would cherish her heart. If that man would be willing to wait for her heart to be healed.

'Excuse me, dear, is this seat taken?'

Molly glanced up to see an elderly, white-haired woman indicating the plush chair opposite her. With a cursory glance around, she noticed the shop had quickly filled with patrons and the only free seat was, in fact, across from her.

'Oh, um,' she stammered, 'no, please, feel free.' She waved a hand in polite invitation, although she was disappointed to have her quiet time interrupted. She never did well speaking with strangers. And today had been about saying goodbye. Not hello.

The woman sat down with a smile and set her mug of coffee on the table. 'Thank you, dear.'

Molly smiled politely.

They sat in silence for several minutes. Molly watched out the window, relaxing and tuning out the background noise once more.

Unfortunately, the other woman seemed inclined to hold a conversation.

'This is my favourite café,' the other woman commented.

Molly nodded, but did not turn her head. 'Mine, as well.'

'I don't come into the city often, so I haven't been able to indulge in their coffee for some time.'

No such luck in having a solitary farewell, apparently. Molly groused to herself but forced a smile and hummed in response.

'Have you lived in the city long?'

Molly glanced at her. 'Most of my adult life.'

'It is a beautiful city, isn't it? So full of life and energy.' The woman laughed quietly. 'Too much energy for my aging bones. But if I were younger, oh, I could have thrived on the possibilities here.' She sipped her coffee, her eyes boring into Molly over the rim of the mug. 'I'm glad, though, that I hadn't.'

Her ice blue eyes seemed to pluck Molly's taut heartstrings in an uncomfortably familiar way. Molly shifted in her seat, curiosity and politeness leading her to ask, 'Why is that?'

The woman thought for a moment. Her eyes drifted to the somewhat dismal weather and she gestured to the people walking by as she spoke, 'For some, London is the land of opportunity. For others, it's a place to fade into the background. For me, it would have been the city I'd chosen over a family. As a young woman, had I been given a choice between settling down or immersing myself in everything London has to offer…well,' she raised her eyebrows and smiled almost contentedly, 'I wouldn't be happily married now and with the hope of being a grandmother on the horizon.'

Molly swallowed thickly and pressed her lips together tightly. The woman's words resonated too closely to Molly's own past and her future desires. She had chosen London to grow in her career, yet she had faded into the background socially. Friends came and went, but love… love had betrayed her. Millions of men in London and she had the unfortunate case of giving her heart to the one man who would never cherish it and give her his in return. She had tried moving on. And everyone saw how well that worked with the carbon copy detective; lovable, yet dim-witted Tom. No, part of her heart would always belong to Sherlock Holmes.

But after seven years of unrequited love, Molly was choosing to take the rest of it back.

So she had packed up her life and said goodbye to the future she knew she'd never have.

'Have I upset you?' The woman leaned over and placed a hand atop Molly's, bringing Molly out of her melancholy thoughts.

'No, it's nothing… nothing,' Molly mumbled, forcing a tight-lipped smile, too worn to keep up her usual façade of cheerfulness.

The woman tilted her head knowingly. 'Would you care to talk about it?'

Molly sighed and twisted her hands around the coffee mug. The woman seemed far too nosy for a passing stranger. But Molly was leaving London the next day. And unloading even a smidgen of the heartache she'd been carrying… maybe that would make her goodbye easier.

'It's quite a long story, complicated and actually quite pathetic,' she sighed with a rueful smile. 'I fell in love with a man, a brilliant and beautiful man, who… used me for work.' She blinked back the tears she thought she'd long ago finished crying. 'I hung on for years, hoping he would finally see me. But he made it pretty clear once and for all that what he did see was not worthy of his attentions.'

Molly turned to look out the window once more. 'Now I'm moving on. Or trying to, at least. I'm leaving for Edinburgh tomorrow, to start over. Find purpose.' She smiled wistfully at the couples passing by. 'Find love.'

The woman tilted her head in question, her eyes softening with compassion. 'What was it about this young man that you loved so dearly?'

Molly smiled sadly, a bittersweet feeling sweeping over her at the thought of Sherlock. 'His heart.'

The woman frowned in confusion. 'And yet he seems to be careless with yours.'

'Yeah, well,' Molly huffed in self-derision, 'that's my own fault. I let him walk all over me without so much as a 'by your leave'.'

'He doesn't sound like a very nice man.'

'He's not.'

The woman blinked in surprise at Molly's brisk assessment. 'And yet his heart is what ensnared you?'

'It's… hard to explain.' Molly rubbed the rim of her mug in contemplation. 'He comes across as a thoughtless cad. Most of the time, he doesn't intend to. I fully believe he was born without an emotional filter, so whatever comes to his mind spews from his mouth with nothing to censor it.'

The woman tittered, her eyes crinkling in amusement.

Molly sighed. 'But despite that… if you can reach his heart, he latches onto you like a tick. He may claim he doesn't love, but he does. He loves very few people, but those he does, he loves unreservedly, unfailingly. He would die for them.'

'And you don't believe yourself to be one of those?'

Tears pricked Molly's eyes, as she barked a laugh. 'No. No, I'm definitely not.'

The woman tilted her head and seemed to assess Molly, her eyes once more seeming to pierce Molly's heart with a familiarity that set her teeth on edge.

'Did he tell you this?'

Alright, it's time to go. Molly could actually feel her heartstrings fraying as they were pulled tighter with pain, the questioning quickly becoming far too personal. She reached down and pulled a few bills from her purse and securing them under the empty mug on the table. 'It was… nice to meet you, but I need to go.'

Molly forced a smile and stood quickly.

'If I may ask…' The woman reached out and grasped Molly's wrist as she walked past. 'Does he know you love him?'

The pain of his rejection, that Molly had so closely kept a bottled in a corner of her beaten and broken heart, came flooding back, burning her with humiliation and sorrow.

'Yes,' she hoarsely whispered, pulling her arm away and dashing out the door into the bitter cold. The tears she'd been fighting flowed in earnest as she rushed down the road, all the while wondering if her heart would ever heal.

* * *

'And how was your coffee?'

'Do be quiet, Myc.'

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the biting tone from his passenger as she slid into the car. With a firm tap against the barrier behind him, the car pulled away from the curb.

'I was only inquiring as to the outcome of your endeavor, Mummy.' He refrained from rolling his eyes. After all, he was within batting range of that enormous bag of hers.

Violet Holmes sighed and folded her hands primly in her lap. 'Take me to Sherlock. Now.'

Mycroft frowned. 'That would be deviating from the carefully constructed plan we-'

'You will take me to your brother, Mycroft Holmes.'

Cowed by his mother's authoritative tone, Mycroft hesitantly tilted his head and pressed the intercom.

'Matthews, it seems we will be making a detour.'

* * *

John watched in frustration as Sherlock plucked string after string on that bloody violin. No case worthy of the detective's attention had come by and John was ready to commit his first murder in order to be done with the clashing tones harshly breaking the stilted silence.

He glared at Sherlock over his phone, not for the first time wishing he had the ability to maim (or kill) with his mind. His phone beeped with another incoming message from his wife.

Mary's texts had grown increasingly cryptic since he arrived at Baker Street, asking about Sherlock's behaviour and refusing to explain her curiosity. He frowned at the message.

**Has he said anything to you? Is he still sulking? Has he asked you about anything?**

Confused, he wondered what Mary was referring to. She had been to visit him with Claire the day before while John was working a double at the clinic. But she hadn't said anything about what happened, just that it was 'nice.'

**No. Yes. And no. Is there something I should be talking to him about?** He typed.

Her immediate response almost carried a vocal disappointed sigh: **I guess not.**

John nearly groaned in frustration. When he returned home, he would get to the bottom of her confusing, busybody ways.

'So, what did Mary and you talk about yesterday?'

Sherlock immediately tensed up, his hand clenching the neck of his violin. John stared at him, startled by the response to such an innocent question.

'Sherlock?'

The black-haired man snapped out of his frozen daze and once more drew the bow across the violin strings. 'Woman things. Not a pleasant conversation, surely you do not desire a rundown of the details.'

John shook his head swiftly, knowing it was a lie, but also knowing Sherlock would not hesitate to create a false, very uncomfortable discussion between himself and Mary simply to put John off.

The uncomfortable silence was broken by the sound of a car door slamming on the street. Sherlock groaned and lolled his head back like a teenager, his violin drooping toward the floor.

John stood and pulled the curtain aside to see a familiar black, unmarked car sitting just below the window. The buzzer sounded and muffled voices sounded from the foyer as Mrs. Hudson greeted Mycroft and… John listened harder and tried to make out the third voice.

'Mummy,' Sherlock grumbled.

John turned from the window. 'Excuse me?'

Sherlock huffed and rose, setting his violin on the table, 'My mother is accompanying my brother today.'

'William!'

John and Sherlock both immediately straightened at the authoritative biting tone. Determined steps on the stairs were punctuated by a string of threats.

'So help me, William, if your ineptitude at dealing with other humans prevents me from becoming a grandmother I will move in here and make your life a living Hell every sodding day!'

John's eyebrows rose to his hairline at the angry language spouting from the normally genteel matriarch of the Holmes family. As Violet Holmes' crossed the threshold into 221B, Sherlock jumped to his feet and immediately went to give her a kiss on the cheek before stepping quickly away, his eye on the heavy bag hanging from her fist.

'Hello, Mrs. Holmes,' John greeted her with a hug and a smile.

'Afternoon, John.' She smiled warmly, turning to greet him with a brief hug. 'How are Mary and the little one?'

John beamed in response, his chest swelling with paternal pride. 'They're doing well, Claire is starting to crawl already!'

Behind Violet's back, Sherlock rolled his eyes. John resisted the urge to stick out his tongue like an adolescent.

Mycroft appeared in the doorway with a haughty smirk aimed directly at Sherlock.

'Ah, so good to see you, Mycroft. Been dipping into your PA's stash of biscuits, I see.' Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the older man's waistline, his voice dripping with disdain.

John stepped back quickly as Mummy Holmes' whirled about and with an almighty thwack, chuffed Sherlock upside the head.

'Sorry,' Sherlock grumbled, rubbing the back of his head and mussing up his already frazzled curls.

'Tea?' John broke the tension and set about filling the kettle as the Holmes' sat themselves down in stiff silence. No one spoke as they quietly sipped their drinks, although Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to be having an entire conversation with their eyes and facial expressions. If John were to guess, they were each conveying different manners in which one would kill the other.

'I suppose I should ask what this lovely visit is about,' Sherlock groused. 'My ability to interact with the goldfish of the world has not changed, so why are you suddenly concerned about my spawning another generation of this charming family?'

Violet sipped quietly then set her cup aside and leveled a fierce stare at her youngest boy, but remained silent.

John sensed this conversation was not something he wanted or needed to be privy to.

With a nod, he rose to his feet and clapped his hands together. 'Well, lovely to see you, Mrs. Holmes. Mycroft. But I must be off, Mary will have my head if I leave her with the baby for too long.'

All three Holmes' stared at him, clearly seeing through the blatant lie. He cleared his throat and gave a cursory nod to the room. 'Text me if there's a case, Sherlock. Otherwise I'll see you at mine and Mary's for dinner Friday.'

Grabbing his jacket from the hook, he hurried down the stairs.

Taking a deep breath of the muggy London air, he relaxed. As curious as he was to know what was going on with Sherlock, the last time he was with more than two Holmes' in a room, there was a series of drugged drinks and shooting of people, and quite frankly he didn't need a repeat of any part of that anytime soon.


	5. Mummy

Sherlock watched as his 'friend' bolted out of the room. _How nice of him to leave me here at the mercy of… Mummy. _

He already knew what this was about. Molly-

'-Hooper,' Mummy stared him down.

Yep. It all boiled down to her. One pathologist who was continuing to throw his life into upheaval.

'You fix this. I cannot stand to see you heartbroken. And to see what you have done to that darling girl; why, I have never been so ashamed of you in my life!'

'I am not _heartbroken_,' Sherlock sneered. 'To be heartbroken, one must first have a heart.'

Mummy sighed and immediately shame flashed through Sherlock.

'I regret not having instilled a greater sense of compassion and love in the both of you,' she lamented. 'What did you do to her to break her heart?'

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft briefly. His brother narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, indicating he did indeed know exactly what had transpired between Sherlock and Molly.

He swallowed thickly. He had done his best to delete the interaction from his Mind Palace, but it refused to be erased. There were emotions embedded too deeply in it to make deletion feasible. The memory flashed through his mind, bringing all those unwanted emotions and flooding his body with radical chemicals that watered his eyes and rushed the blood away from his heart, leaving it cold and empty. But with the ease of decades of practice, he simply rolled his shoulders back and buried the feelings behind a steel door of disinterest.

'She is accustomed to moving on after rejection, I assure you she will 'bounce back' quickly,' he said, attempting to brush of the line of questioning.

With the force of a dozen agents, Violet Holmes' mighty bag sailed through the air, a dull thud and ominous clacking ringing through the flat as it hit its target.

Sherlock rubbed his shoulder, glaring up at his mother with a good deal of petulant hostility.

'When will you get it through that thick, genius skull of yours, Sherlock? It's clear to see that you love her. Look at how you've deteriorated since you hurt her so deeply. Mycroft says you didn't leave your flat for a week, you haven't taken many cases, and when you did your deductions were flimsy at best!'

Sherlock hunched down further in his chair in defense of her visible wrath. It had nothing to do with the fact that she was spouting the same logic his mind had been blaring at him for days.

No, it definitely wasn't that.

Still maintaining a cool exterior, Violet almost tangibly seethed with anger. Mycroft was wise enough not to make a sound, but Sherlock could see in his peripheral that it was all the British Government could do not to snicker at Sherlock's situation.

'I assume Mummy's awareness of Doctor Hooper's moving is due to your meddling,' Sherlock sneered at his older brother.

Mycroft fiddled with the handle of his brolly distractedly, his chin pointed up quite haughtily, 'I knew there were few others who would be able to knock sense into that rather muddled Mind Palace of yours.'

'I thought you believed sentiment to be a chemical _defect_,' Sherlock spat.

The chair beside him creaked as Mycroft leaned a bit forward, 'Although I believe sentiment to be a dangerous territory in which to venture, it has its advantages.'

'Since when?' Sherlock laughed, nearly spitting out his sip of tea.

With a weary sigh, Mycroft leveled his brother with a dangerous stare. 'If you would simply open your eyes, you would be well aware that no less than six months ago, I conceded that emotions held a distinct advantage and have myself begun cultivating an,' he breathed deeply, as though the words still pained him, 'emotional relationship.'

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock took in his brother's posture, his clothing, even that ridiculous brolly he carried. What he had at first disregarded as impossible, was now blaringly obvious. The softened wrinkles around Mycroft's eyes, the absence of the perpetual frown line, the lack of fidgeting fingers, and an overall air of contentment.

'Anne is a wonderful woman, Myc,' Mummy crooned adoringly, rewarding Mycroft with a smile.

'Ah, so not only are you finally getting some, you mixed work with pleasure and have roped your PA into it,' Sherlock jeered, although the very thought of Mycroft showing _any _type of affection sent shivers of disgust down his spine.

As soon as the words left his mouth, he braced himself for another walloping. But none came.

'Sherlock.' Mummy sighed, as though defeated. 'Is it so difficult for you to see the good in loving someone?'

'As far as I am concerned, the pitfalls of love are greater than its benefits.'

Mummy shook her head. 'Do you truly believe that?'

Sherlock stared at her solemnly. 'Yes.'

His heart stuttered slightly. Mary had challenged him to compare the disadvantages of love with its advantages and he came to the logical conclusion that it was far better to avoid love than to fall victim to it. His mind looped the same argument _'Were I to engage in a relationship with Doctor Hooper she would inevitably be either killed by an enemy or heartbroken by my aptitude for callousness.' _ But the logic seemed weaker in the face of Mycroft's admission.

Mycroft… _Mycroft, _of all people, had just rescinded his lifelong stance on sentiment in order to be with his PA. Six months ago, apparently. Sherlock chastised himself for missing the obvious for so long. _'All lives end, all hearts are broken.' Despite that, Mycroft has allowed himself to fall in love. And he is the better for it. So far. And by doing so, he has put his significant other at great risk, as well as his own heart. Why?_

A gentle hand on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts. Mummy looked down at him with compassion, a tinge of sadness behind her aging eyes. 'Love doesn't mean nothing bad will ever happen, Sherlock. It means that you want to share the good _and the bad _with one person, someone who will support you in those times and make you desire to be a better person. There won't be endless good days. There will be fights and struggles. But loving someone means staying despite the arguments, working things out because you'd rather fight with her than spend the rest of your life without her. It means taking a risk in giving her your heart, and trusting that she will cherish it, as you cherish hers.'

With a gentle kiss on his forehead, Mummy patted his shoulder and stood to leave.

'I was protecting her,' Sherlock mumbled, but suddenly he didn't feel so confident in his intention.

'Nothing in life is guaranteed; not her life, not your life, nor a happily ever after,' Mummy said as she stood in the doorway, Mycroft by her side. 'But when a woman loves you as unconditionally as Molly does, it's best not to break her heart in order to protect yours.'

Silently, the two left the flat, Mummy's final words echoing accusingly in her wake.

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin. Perhaps his list needed to be edited.


	6. Martha

Resisting the urge to hoof it to the nearest hotel (though Lord knows she couldn't afford even _one _night after putting her savings as a down payment on her new flat), Molly desperately tried to calm the panic in her mind as she stared at the door to 221 Baker Street, overnight bag in hand.

Before she was able to gather the courage to tap the knocker, the door opened and Martha Hudson was pulling her into a hug.

'Oh, Molly dear, come in, come in.' She pulled Molly into a tight hug and ushered her into the foyer. Molly held her breath and listened for sounds from the flat above, half afraid its oft chaotic tenant would come bounding down the stairs. She let out a shaky sigh of relief when Mrs. Hudson shuffled her into the kitchen of 221A.

'Thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson.' Molly set her bag against the wall, out of the way. 'I hope I'm not imposing.'

Mrs. Hudson waved off her worries. 'Call me Martha, dear. And I'm happy to have you stay.'

'It's just for the night.' Molly was still unsure, her insecurities increasing. 'Meena was supposed to let me kip on her couch, but she had a family emergency.'

With her London flat emptied and her earthly belongings packed away in a temporary storage unit, Molly had no place to stay for her last night in London. The original plan was to stay with Meena, a final girls' night consisting of wine and, most likely, tears. Meena had been a dear friend for years. She worked as a lab tech at Bart's and was often the listening ear and voice of reason for Molly's woes over a certain Consulting Detective. But a frantic Meena had rung her earlier that day that her brother had a row with his wife that morning and needed a place to crash. Though it was the first she'd heard of Meena having a brother, Molly said she understood keeping it to herself that she was more than a bit disappointed and sad that they wouldn't be able to properly say goodbye.

Mrs. Hudson, _Martha_, simply turned around and began filling the kettle. 'Don't you worry, it's not often I have company. It'll be nice to have some girl talk around here.'

Molly hummed distractedly and sat stiffly at the table.

_It was going to be a long night._

* * *

'Mrs. Hudson!'

Head lolling over the back of his chair, Sherlock bellowed for his landlady.

Tea. He needed tea. Or biscuits.

Maybe a vienetta.

He groaned and jumped to his feet.

He wasn't Mycroft. He wouldn't feed his feelings. Not that he had feelings. No, he most certainly did not.

The list in his mind taunted him. Of all the detractions and benefits of giving in to sentiment, Sherlock logically determined that it was better to be without such a risky attachment. But the final addition at the very bottom unexpectedly tilted the scale.

Molly had given her love freely, poured her heart into helping him despite what everyone thought. She hadn't placed him on a pedestal of what she thought him to be, but instead saw him as fully human and called him out when he was wrong. She even had the courage to slap him for his failure, the disappointment in her eyes far more humbling than all three slaps. She was strong when he was weak and she had never turned her back on him, despite all he had put her through.

Her love for him made her stronger.

He sat up in his chair almost in surprise as the words seemed to echo in his mind.

Though he would never admit it aloud, Mary was right. He cared for Molly. He more than cared for her, he loved her. For all her quirks and awkwardness, for her courage and her loyalty, for the way she stood up to him and laid it all on the line.

He groaned and fought down the bile rising in his throat at the memory of how he had responded. Her face appeared in his mind, the hollowness in her eyes as he tore her heart to pieces, the way she seemed to visibly shatter.

'Mrs. Hudson!' He shouted again, ignoring the slightly elevated pitch in his voice. 'Tea!'

When a few minutes passed and no landlady carrying a tray of digestives barged through the door, he sighed heavily and went to open the door to shout again. She was probably watching one of her crap telly programs and couldn't hear him. And he needed tea. If he was going to 'think through his feelings,' he needed abundant sustenance.

* * *

Martha had finished putting together a tray, chatting endlessly as Molly sat at the small table in the kitchen, when Sherlock's last bellow made its way down the stairs.

'Molly, dear. I can't possibly make it up those stairs another time today. My hip, you know,' she explained as she patted the offending body part. 'Would you be a dear and take Sherlock his tea and biscuits?'

Ever the compassionate one, Molly bit back her anxiousness and mutely took the heavy-laden tray. 'Of course.' She forced a smile as Mrs. Hudson patted her cheek appreciatively.

As quietly as possible, Molly tip-toed up the stairs, willing her rapidly-beating heart to slow down. The door to 221B was closed and no sound issued from the other side. Resisting the urge to breathe a sigh of relief as she made it to the top with nary a sound, she carefully lowered the tray to the floor in front of the closed door, the tea cups rattling slightly in their saucers. She'd knock and then immediately run down the stairs. Even Sherlock Holmes' could pick up a tray from the landing.

Just as she was about to stand up, the door flew open and she found herself staring at a pair of bare feet. A pair of bony, masculine bare feet. Specifically, Sherlock Holmes' bare feet.

'Molly!' Sherlock exclaimed from somewhere above her crouched position.

Molly immediately jumped to her feet, her heart thundering in surprise. 'Sherlock! I was just…You wanted tea and Mrs. Hudson's hip, you know…' She blushed furiously under his incredulous stare. He was clad in loose pajamas and a dressing gown, his curls tousled endearingly and his eyes wide with surprise. She swallowed thickly and blinked back a rush of tears. 'I'll just be going.'

Molly whirled about and nearly flew down the stairs, leaving him staring after her in bafflement.

She very nearly hurled herself into the safety of Mrs. Hudson's flat, tears pricking her eyes and the pain in her heart constricting her breathing.

'Are you alright, dear?'

Mrs. Hudson poked her head around the corner from the kitchen, motherly concern in her eyes.

Molly hesitantly nodded, but her chin trembled at the effort not to give in to a good cry. Seeing Sherlock again, without his trademark armor of a well-tailored suit and Belstaff, was like a sock to the heart. He had looked so comfortable and warm. Like home.

She bit her lip hard and pressed her head back against the door behind her as bitter tears marked their way down her face, shaking her head.

It was still sinking in. She was leaving everything she'd known for more than ten years. London, St. Bart's, her friends… Sherlock.

And it felt like she was leaving the closest thing to _home_ that she had known since her father passed.

'Oh, my sweet girl.' It was Martha's voice, rich in compassion as she pulled the younger woman into a tight embrace, that was Molly's undoing. With a hiccuping sob, she buried her face into Martha's shoulder and broke.

All the pain she'd buried came flooding over her as the strength to carry on that she'd managed to scrape by on since she had made her decision to leave withered and died.

She was leaving the only place she called home.

And it hurt as much as giving up on Sherlock.

* * *

With a motherly kiss to Molly's pale, tear-stained cheek, Martha closed the door to her guest room and leaned against it with a sigh.

All Molly's sorrow had been held in and when the floodgates finally opened, the poor girl had cried herself to exhaustion. Martha's heart broke for her. They had sat on the small sofa, Martha brushing a gentle hand through the younger woman's hair in attempt to comfort her. The cuckoo clock had not even struck nine o'clock when Molly's sobs subsided and she blearily asked where to freshen up.

Martha insisted she change for bed, knowing her mid-morning flight the next day would be twice as miserable if she didn't sleep well, especially after such an emotional evening. By the time Martha had fixed her a glass of warm milk, Molly was already asleep.

Heart heavy, Martha quietly made her way to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

She started in surprise to see a shadowy figure sitting at her kitchen table.

'You Holmes' boys will be the death of me one day,' she chided, filling the kettle. 'Tea?'

Mycroft declined with a smile. 'Thank you, but I must be off in a few minutes. I merely stopped by upon being informed by dear brother has flown the coop. He left Baker Street no less than thirty minutes ago. I wanted to ask if you or Miss Hooper had any interaction with him since this afternoon.'

'Molly brought up a tray for him earlier. She came back within a minute or so, but after that,' Martha tsked sadly. 'The poor dear was a mess.'

'I see.' Mycroft raised his eyebrows, clearly understanding something Martha did not. He stood and, in a rather unexpected display of gallantry, he placed a gentle kiss on the back of her hand. 'Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.'

'For what?' Martha blushed at his gentlemanly display. No wonder the man was so powerful, he certainly had a way with charm.

Mycroft smiled softly. 'For taking care of them both.' He straightened his waist coat and bowed in farewell. 'Now, I must put the next steps in motion. I expect I shall see you soon. Until then, good night.'

Twirling his umbrella, he gracefully left the flat, locking the door expertly behind him.

Martha giggled as she watched him leave. Oh, were she twenty years younger, that man would be all kinds of trouble for her.


	7. Mary and John

_A/N: Oh, how I struggled with this chapter. I hope you all enjoy the fruits of my perseverance! Reviews are most welcome!_

* * *

The insistent banging on the front door roused John from a brief nap. Grunting, he pushed himself into a sitting position on the sofa and blinked blearily at the muted telly. _Fell asleep during the news. I'm turning into my father._ The clock on the wall hadn't yet struck nine o'clock and he had the sudden urge to join Mary in bed for a good rest before Claire's midnight feeding. But the continued pounding by who he could only assume was a soon-to-be-dead Consulting Detective derailed that thought before it was fully completed.

The lock clicked before John had even stood up and Sherlock swept into the room, unkempt and harried. He strode over to the sofa, opening his mouth to speak then closing it with a frown as John stared up at him in bemusement.

'Sherlock, what in the bloody he-'

'She's leaving.'

Furrowing his brow, John stood. 'Wha-Who? _Molly_? Yes… We've known this for a month. Why is it just _now _sinking in?'

'She's leaving.' Sherlock gulped. 'And I made her leave. I hurt her, John.'

'Well, that's not exactly surprising,' John snorted. 'You've hurt her quite a bit over the years. But I'm sure you're not the reason she's going. Mary says the job in Edinburgh is a highly coveted and prestigious position. Not something anyone with half a mind would turn down.'

'But she can't go.' Sherlock paced frantically as John watched in exasperation.

'For God's sake, Sherlock, let her have this. You've treated her like an errand girl and a verbal punching bag for years. Get a new one. Or better yet, stop being such a monumental prat.'

'She's leaving…' Sherlock trailed off, suddenly looking like a lost boy. '…and I love her.'

John froze. 'Sorry… what?'

Growling, Sherlock raked an agitated hand through his hair. 'I love her. You know, that weird, crampy feeling in one's chest and the highly unsettling feeling in one's intestinal tract. The idea that a future with one person is infinitely more satisfying than one without them.'

'I know what love is, you daft prick. I'm just trying to… you have those feelings for Molly?' John clarified.

'Yes.'

'Molly Hooper? Molly from the morgue, with the _massive _crush on you?'

'Oh, _Hell_,' Sherlock snapped._ '_Yes, Molly. Plain, morbid, mousey, can't fall in love with a normal bloke _Molly_!'

'And you… _love_ her?'

'Honestly, what does Mary possibly see in you? Yes. I. Love. Molly. Hooper. May we now move on with the conversation or is there anything else about that statement I should clarify for your vacant mind?'

John shook his head with a bewildered smile on his face. 'Nope. I'm good. Carry on.'

'I want her to stay. I want… I want _her._' Sherlock fumbled over his words, not sure what he was trying to convey. 'In a romantic way, the way you and Mary are together, though preferably without the sudden revelation of her past as an assassin.'

John looked at him closely. 'Are you… are you saying you want to be in a _relationship _with Molly? A _serious_ relationship? Marriage and eventually kids and all that, the whole shebang?'

Sherlock nodded once, firmly.

'_Jesus,_ Sherlock.' John rubbed a hand over his face. 'She leaves _tomorrow_ for the other side of the country.'

'And I need your advice on how to convince her to stay.'

'Did you ever think about just bloody _telling her_?' John barked a laugh.

Sherlock suddenly looked very uncertain. 'I do not think… I _know_ she would not believe me.'

'Well, that's for bloody sure,' Mary interrupted as she stepped down the last few stairs. Her expression simultaneously murderous and disappointed.

Shrinking slightly, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. 'She told you.'

Mary shook her head and moved to stand beside her husband. 'She didn't have to. One day you were both fine, the next you were both heartbroken and Molly began making plans to accept one of her many job offers. I knew _you _had finally done something to destroy that girl's hope.'

'I… I didn't intend for her to leave,' Sherlock explained, seeming to cower under Mary's scolding.

John raised his hand between them. 'I don't get it. You've said and done a _lot _of things to Molly over the years. She's always forgiven you, the poor deluded woman. What could you _possibly _have said to break her unending patience?'

Under the reproachful glare of his best friend, Sherlock gulped loudly. 'I…I-I told her…' He trailed off, his voice wavering. Taking a deep breath, he started again, his words suddenly tumbling out in a pained rush. 'She approached me after her shift, well, a few hours after her shift. I had convinced her to stay and let me work.' He waved a hand dismissively as he digressed. 'We were out on the street and she turned to me… she said she'd been offered a position in Edinburgh. It was a great opportunity for her career. She wanted to know…' He took a deep breath. 'She wanted to know if there was any reason for her to stay.'

Mary felt her eyes prickle with tears at the agony in the detective's usually shielded eyes.

'And what did you reply?' John prompted when Sherlock went silent.

His friend whispered harshly. 'I told her 'no.''

The Watson's waited for him to go on, but the sheer pain in his voice was enough to know whatever else he said had destroyed Molly's never-ending hope.

John groaned and raked a hand over his face.

'How do I fix this?' The tall man asked pathetically, his voice no louder than a whisper as he stared hopefully at his friend.

'Tell her,' Mary spoke up, coming to stand directly in front of him. 'Be honest and tell her you love her, too. She loves you for _you_ and all your faults and fears of emotion.' She narrowed her eyes dangerously. 'And you better grovel. Humble that massive ego of yours and beg her to forgive you and _pray _she will take a chance on you, even after all you've done.'

He looked at her disbelievingly, a tinge of hope in his eyes.

As though knowing he needed physical reassurance, Mary pulled him into a tight hug. 'Broken hearts are hard to mend. But if you tell her, I think that will go a long way to healing hers.'

His eyes glazed over as he fell into his Mind Palace and he slowly sank into the chair behind him. Mary looked at John, who simply rolled his eyes fondly and led her back upstairs. 'He'll be in there for a while. We'll take him with us to the airport tomorrow to see Molly off. Maybe he'll have figured out how to express his feelings by then.' He wrinkled his nose at the oddity of referring to Sherlock's feelings.

But come morning, there was no sign of the detective.

* * *

The sun was barely peeking over the horizon when Molly waved a final goodbye to her friends. They stood on the other side of airport security, Mary holding back tears as John wrapped an arm around her in comfort. They had seemed distracted and impatient when they hugged Molly farewell, their disappointment almost tangible. Meena had driven her to the airport and they'd said their tearful goodbye at the car. Molly wasn't sure she could have handled anyone else seeing her off.

Molly turned away and straightened her shoulders. She would miss them. But each time she saw Mary or John, she was painfully reminded that they were forever carved into Sherlock's heart and she… wasn't welcome there.

After making her way through security to her terminal, Molly flopped down into a seat and flipped through a magazine, waiting for her flight to begin boarding, trying to keep her mind from what she was leaving, but failing. London sat just outside the windows, everything she'd known for more than a decade. Everything and everyone she loved was out there. Tears tracked down her cheeks and she hastily wiped them away, not wanting to make a scene.

Finally, the announcement came for her flight. The queue grew for the first sections and she fiddled with the corner of her boarding pass, knowing she would be the last section called. The plane slowly filled and she stood to join the line to board.

'Molly.'

She froze at the familiar baritone. Turning slowly, her eyes widened in surprise as she stared up Sherlock. He wore a pilot's uniform, his curls nearly hidden under a cap. And he looked as wretched as she felt.

'What are you doing here?' She managed to ask past the lump in her throat.

His hand fidgeted at his side and he swallowed thickly. 'I wanted to… That is, I'm sorry.'

Her eyes widened as he continued. 'For what I said. I was… wrong.'

'Sherlock, I already forgave you. But I have to move on.' Molly stared down at the boarding pass in her hands and fiddled with the edges. 'The plane is boarding. I…I need to go.'

She made to step around him when his hoarse voice stopped her in her tracks.

'I love you.'

Her heart stopped.

Every heartstring cried out at the crushing pain his words evoked.

Surely she'd heard wrong. The sheer amount of emotional upheaval she'd endured the past three weeks was causing her to hallucinate.

Yes, that was it.

'Molly?'

She looked up to see Sherlock had moved in front of her and was staring down at her with, what she could only describe as, poorly concealed vulnerability.

He slowly began lowering his face toward hers.

Molly blinked as she realized his intention and stepped back with a gasp. He frowned, his hand grasping the space where she had been.

The shards of her heart had jolted at his words, as though shocked back to life, before the cold death of logic suffocated them once more. He was a master of manipulation. She was just an asset, and an annoying pest of one at that. He was clearly only now realizing that her leaving had more downsides than positives. Who would get him body parts, who would let him in the lab at unholy hours in the morning, who would cater to his every demand?

Tightening her grip on her carryon and her resolve, she made to walk past him.

Quick as a flash, his hand shot out and grabbed her upper arm. Molly squeaked quietly in surprise, her eyes flying to meet the ones she'd once loved so dearly, the ones that were staring down at her, wide and clear.

'You're still leaving?' He asked with a mixture of incredulity, confusion and, was that _hurt?_ 'Is this one of those sentimental mind games wherein you want me to chase you? I don't have the patience for that ridiculousness. It would be most beneficial for us if you were to come to your senses and stop this charade.'

It was a testament to how broken she was that his baffled and angry words did nothing more than bounce off, her already broken heart unable to light the spark of hope again. Closing her eyes and taking a trembling breath, she bravely looked up at the man who had very nearly obliterated her heart.

'Sherlock,' she breathed, gently prying his fingers from their hold on her arm. 'Don't lie to me. I've held on to a dream world where I hadn't loved in vain… I held on to it with everything I've had for too long, pouring my heart into you. But now I'm taking it back. It's time I faced my reality and learned to love someone else with everything I am and not with just what doesn't belong to you. Let me have that… please.' Her voice broke and she stepped around him as the tears began falling.

Sherlock swallowed thickly, his hand twitching in the air between them as her words echoed with finality in the slowly darkening halls of his Mind Palace. Sherlock could feel his heart thundering, the wretched feelings of fear and loss battering at the foundations of his Mind Palace.

The tightening in his chest reached a critical point as Molly brushed past him.

His hand moved of its own volition to clutch at the place above his heart. The taut strings pulled even tighter across his chest.

He turned around in time to watch her disappear down the jetway, the door shut firmly behind her.

_I said it all wrong._

One by one, the heartstrings began to fray.

_And she left. _

His heart clenched.

_She left me._

The thought was all his mind would produce. All the deductions around him faded into nonexistence. He barely noticed the security officers rushing in from the sides and hauling him away, saying something about impersonation and potential terrorism.

All he saw was the plane carrying the woman he loved slowly back away from the gate.


	8. Mycroft

**In which we discover exactly how Mycroft masterminded the entire plot**

* * *

**Three weeks ago**

Mycroft watched the silent interaction between his younger brother and the timid pathologist. The distance of the CCTV camera made it difficult to make out their features entirely, but their postures spoke volumes about the situation. Sherlock stood rigid, his hands clasped behind his back. Miss Hooper, who had been wringing her hands up to that point, now stood with her shoulders collapsed in defeat, arms hanging limply by her sides.

Whatever had passed between them, it was enough to break the never-ending optimism of the young doctor. Sherlock stepped away and strode to the curb, easily hailing a cab, leaving a frozen Molly to stare at the place he had been.

And even the distorted footage showed the heartbreak tearing her apart. Her head slowly turned to watch the cab carrying Sherlock pull away.

Somewhere in the deep crevice of his frozen heart, Mycroft felt a tug.

This woman had saved his brother's life and, by proxy, the lives of his three closest friends. She had endured two years without a word from him, having no idea if he was alive or not. Mycroft felt an unfamiliar tinge of guilt, knowing he could have… _should _have kept her abreast of Sherlock's continued existence during that time. Her job was put in jeopardy when her falsifying of Sherlock's death was exposed, effectively disqualifying her from publishing during the six-month suspension and setting her rather promising career back a significant amount.

Then she was put in the middle of the game between Sherlock and the Faux Moriarty.

And despite it all, through it all, she loved Sherlock. Seven years. And she had finally come to the end of her hope.

A gentle clatter pulled him from his thoughts as his assistant lowered a cup of tea at his elbow. He gave her a gentle smile in response and her returning grin sent a jolt through his heart. With a subtle wink, Anthea slipped out as quietly as she had come in.

Mycroft sipped the tea in thought. Five months into a 'relationship' and he wondered if that jolt of joy would ever fade. They were careful to separate work from their more recreational activities. Not that it would lead to trouble, his superior was well aware of their 'fraternizing.' But being the logical head of the British Government did not lack its perks. Neither his nor Anthea's work had suffered and, if anything, they worked better together having a… more sentimental attachment.

Returning his attention to the screen in front of him, Mycroft watched as Molly gathered her composure and walked out of sight, curled in on herself.

The subsequent CCTV footage would show her wandering back to her flat, where she would lock herself away for several days. And she emerged strong, heart-hardened, resignation in hand. Mycroft shut off the screen, willing the uncomfortable ache in his chest to dissipate.

He loved his foolish brother dearly.

And he knew Sherlock loved Molly Hooper. But he was terrified to be vulnerable. To widen his life in order to accommodate her.

Whatever Sherlock had said outside Bart's that day had obliterated the last spark of hope Molly had managed to carry for these long years.

And Mycroft knew he owed her a debt. She had played an integral role in his brother's death and resurrection. And something about her peppy optimism, despite annoying Mycroft's normally level-headed logic, endeared her toward him.

And perhaps there was a small, unfrozen part of him that wistfully wondered what it might be like to be so deeply loved.

As he drew his finger over the rim of the glass, a small piece of paper on the desk by the screen caught his gaze.

'Dinner will be delivered at 1800 hours. Eat it all. No excuses. -A'

Underneath the single initial, she'd drawn a small heart. Juvenile, but at the sight, a warm feeling spread across his chest.

Mycroft smiled and carefully tucked the handwritten note into the inner pocket of his jacket.

Perhaps he didn't have to wonder.

But for now, he would focus on helping Sherlock before he destroyed the future he refused to let himself believe he wanted with Molly. Pulling out his ever-present notepad, Mycroft began making notes. He would have to rely on others to talk sense into Sherlock, who would never listen to Mycroft directly. First and foremost... Mummy.

* * *

**Mike**

Mycroft Holmes sat up at the message alert that broke the silence in his office, quirking an eyebrow at the text on his phone screen.

**Attempt 1. Failure.**

He sent off a quick acknowledgement before settling back into his chair and steepling his hands under his chin in thought, easily adjusting the plan to compensate for the failure, something he had estimated to be a 78.3% certainty. 82% if there had been rain.

Reorganizing his thoughts, he typed out a quick text to Mary Watson.

**Attempt 1 has failed. Commence Attempt 2 tomorrow.**

* * *

**Mary**

Just as he finished his phone call with a foreign power who was in desperate need of a refresher in political negotiation, Mycroft's phone beeped with a text from Mary Watson.

**Attempt 2, Phase 1 complete.**

As soon as he replied, Anthea slid into the room silently. With nary a twitch at her sudden entrance, Mycroft smoothly turned to her.

'I will be needing a car to bring me round the cafe to pick up Mummy within the hour. Also, I seem to be in need of the number of one,' he skimmed the papers on his desk, 'Meena Williams. I believe she will be unexpectedly burdened with a familial emergency this evening.'

Anthea's lips barely twitched in amusement as she deftly withdrew a slip of paper from the files stacked neatly in the corner of his desk. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her.

'One of these days, I will discover how you manage to not only anticipate my needs, but operate under the radar of my unparalleled deductive reasoning,' he grumbled as he snatched the paper from her manicured hands.

She raised her eyebrows in amused triumph before turning around and gracefully slipping out as silently as she had entered.

His eyes lingered on her retreating figure appreciatively.

With a practiced hand, Mycroft withdrew his personal mobile from his suit jacket and tapped in the digits provided by his soon-to-be-given-a-bonus-or-holiday-away assistant.

'Miss Williams,' he greeted with a thick layer of polished manipulation, a confident smile upon his face, 'My name is Mycroft Holmes. I believe we can be of great assistance to one another.'

* * *

**Mummy**

Despite Mummy's deviation from his plan, Mycroft begrudgingly admitted (to himself only) that she was successful in her part, nonetheless. And as he watched the CCTV footage outside of Baker Street that evening, he saw a contemplative Sherlock rushing into the street and immediately hailing the lone cab idling down the way. From what Mycroft could make out, his brother was aggravated, frustrated, and, if he wasn't mistaken, worried. Mummy had opened his mind to contemplating his feelings which had opened up a proverbial can of worms in his brother's Mind Palace, all those locked emotions trickling out one by one.

And it appeared as though in his raw emotional state, he and Molly had indeed interacted in some manner, if the vulnerability on Sherlock's face was anything indication.

_Attempt 2 Phase 2 success._

* * *

**The Day of Molly's Flight**

Watching from the security desk, Mycroft narrowed his eyes as Sherlock approached Molly. His brother was hunched over slightly, his eyes tired, and there was a nervous tremble in his hands.

His own heart clenched as Molly stepped away from Sherlock. It was all going wrong, if Sherlock's incredulous face was anything to go by.

Mycroft nearly closed his eyes in defeat. Quickly going through his fallback plans, Mycroft estimated that there was a small window of opportunity to make this right if Molly boarded the plane.

As she walked past Sherlock and handed her pass to the agent, Mycroft ordered several officers to go restrain Sherlock. As soon as the door to the jetway was closed, Mycroft pulled out his phone and was dialing for Anthea when he looked back at the screen.

Sherlock was standing there, immobile and heartbroken. Mycroft felt his heart break as his mind conjured up the memory of Sherlock watching Redbeard be put down. The same hollow, uncomprehending expression of loss on his face, over twenty years later.

Security officers soon surrounded him, dragging Sherlock out of the terminal.

'Anthea, th-' His voice broke. Clearing his throat, he began again. 'There's been a change of plans.'


	9. Mycroft: Phase II

Molly stared out the small window, unseeing. The plane was thrumming with energy as they waited for their turn to speed down the runway.

Numb.

Everything inside her was frozen, unfeeling. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, Sherlock's words running on a loop in her mind. She had made her choice to move on, to let him go, and he had to ruin her plans again just when her shields were lowered, when she was most vulnerable. She thought she had made it, had endured more than a month of avoidance and awkward run-ins. And the moment she relaxed her guard, he turned up and tried to destroy all the progress she'd made to move on.

The flight attendant's instructions buzzed in the background, the shuffling of passengers barely fazing her attention.

Until a gentle nudge brought her focus around. Leaning across the two people in her row, a bemused flight attendant forced a smile.

'Molly Hooper?'

Molly frowned, her gaze darting to the curious passengers nearby. 'Yes,' she said hesitantly.

'Come with me, please.'

Molly didn't move. 'Can I ask what this is about?'

_If this is Sherlock pulling a stunt…_

The attendant's smile thinned ever so slightly. 'Please, come to the front.'

Molly sighed and fussed with her seatbelt, shooting a regretful smile at the two women she awkwardly climbed over to get to the aisle. The attendant led her past the nosy eyes and through first class into the small entryway just behind the Captain's cabin.

The Captain, however, was not in the cockpit. He was currently on the old-school phone whispering harsh abuse to whomever was on the other end.

'Absolutely out of the question, there are rules, there are _laws,_ and I don't care who the bloody fu-' He cut off and nearly growled as he listened to the other end. With a thunderous expression and a deep growl of frustration, he finally slammed the handset into its cradle. Schooling his features, he turned and faced Molly and the attendant.

He jerked his head in Molly's direction. 'This her?'

The attendant nodded and moved back. Molly swallowed, wondering what in the _Hell _Sherlock had done to her now.

The Captain took of his cap and ran an aggravated hand through his hair, 'Well, Miss Hooper. Seems you're not going to be heading to Edinburgh today.'

* * *

'This is preposterous.'

The security officer glared at Sherlock over the steel table. 'Mister Holmes, you openly threatened several airline personnel. You stole an airline pilot's uniform, impersonated an employee, and you fought security when they tried to question you.' Sherlock merely rolled his eyes at the list and dropped his head backward in disgust. 'Our response does not seem preposterous considering your actions.'

Sherlock flung his head forward, the handcuffs rattling against the chair's arms when he tried to raise his hands. 'Oh, _hell_,' he snapped. 'Are the handcuffs really necessary, Officer…' he narrowed his eyes at the nameplate, '…Smith? Really, Smith? How dull. Perhaps your complete lack of mystery is responsible for your wife's multiple affairs.'

Officer Smith gaped in angry disbelief.

Sherlock smirked, 'If you were to employ these handcuffs in a more marital capacity, I'm sure that would interest her far more than your work stories, which I'm _sure _are captivating.'

Before the officer could lunge across the table and throttle the world's only Consulting Detective, the windowless door opened.

'Pardon me, Officer, may I have a word with the suspect… in private?' Mycroft Holmes may have asked politely, but the icy stare he bestowed upon the lowly officer made it quite clear it was far from a request.

Mumbling several unflattering curses, the officer shoved away from the table and stormed from the room.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, 'Have you come to join the party, brother dear? I'm having _ever _so much fun.'

Mycroft strolled across the room and slid gracefully into the abandoned chair, his brolly hooked over the side of the table.

'Is there anyone today you have managed to not insult, Sherlock?' Mycroft sighed as he looked around the bland room. Beside the table and two chairs, the room was barren. Murky white walls, windowless, a single door and a dingy mirror hanging behind Sherlock. He nearly groaned in disgust at sitting in the filth-laden room, but restrained himself, quite admirably if he did say so himself. After all, what is a politician, if not polite when in trying circumstances?

'Just get me out of here, Mycroft,' Sherlock huffed and rattled the handcuffs noisily. 'We both know what this place is doing for your mysophobia.'

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in distaste at his brother's lack of tact. He leaned back in his chair and eyed Sherlock carefully, 'It is not often I have the advantage. Were you able to escape those handcuffs, you would have done so already. Therefore, while I have you detained without means of escape, I thought I would have one of those lovely heart-to-hearts Mummy has always wanted us to have.'

If possible, Sherlock's pale face turned positively white and something akin to terror clouded his eyes. With the swiftness of a Holmes, he quickly schooled his features and smirked, 'Very well, brother _dear._ How is that lovely assistant of yours doing?'

'She is well. I would tell you she sends her regards, but after the last time when you swiped her mobile and replaced the ringtone with 'Secret Agent Man', I'd rather not repeat what she actually said. Now, shall we discuss the core reason you are currently in this position?'

'No.'

'Alas, you have no other option. You are facing potential charges of terrorism. So, until you share with me your reasoning and I deem you a non-threat, you will not leave.'

Sherlock remain stone-faced and tight-lipped.

The Holmes brothers were of equal resilience. Usually. Mycroft knew that the emotional toll of the day on his brother had created a crack in his veneer. So, confident in the surety that eventually Sherlock would give in, Mycroft waited.

* * *

'This is ridiculous. Just let him go or arrest him, but stop wasting everyone's time.' Molly turned away from the window and glared at the woman tapping away on her phone. She had been pulled along from the plane, down corridors and past men in suits and earpieces, to be placed in a small, dark room with a one-way window staring into a holding cell. Sherlock sat in the cell, cuffed to a table, arguing with an officer only to be immediately interrupted by Mycroft. The only other person in the room with Molly was a brunette with, what appeared to be, a texting fetish.

The other woman gave no indication she'd heard Molly's complaint. Molly sighed and turned back to the window, her arms crossed over her chest.

Sherlock looked awful. The pilot's uniform he wore was torn at the shoulder, ill-fitting, and covered in sweat and splatters of blood, most likely from one of the many broken noses of those who had tried to restrain him.

The cap gone and his face illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights, she could see the dark circles under his eyes. He looked weary, as though he hadn't slept. She felt her traitorous heart ache at his appearance. She fought back the fleeting desire to crawl through the window and care for him.

Another ten minutes passed and neither Holmes had spoken. Mycroft remained posture-perfect, but Sherlock had slowly sunk into the seat, pulling ineffectively at the handcuffs. His shoulders hunched over and he sighed multiple times.

It was twenty minutes into their staring contest that Sherlock finally broke. Molly had settled into a seat to wait, but stood immediately when Sherlock exhaled resignedly.

'Molly.'

'What about her?' Mycroft inquired.

'I love her.'

'And?'

Sherlock shrugged his shoulder. 'And what? She loved me, I destroyed that love, and now I shall continue to live my life as I did before I made the mistake of giving in to sentiment.'

'You don't _really _believe that Molly Hooper no longer loves you.'

Molly nearly stumbled back at the heartbroken look that flashed across Sherlock's face.

'Tell me what happened that night, Sherlock.'

Sherlock closed his eyes. Molly swallowed against the lump in her throat. She remembered every second of that encounter, every word, every arrow to her already broken heart.

* * *

**That Night**

For two months, the administration of the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, the top hospital in Scotland, had been courting Molly for a position in their pathology department. A few years previously, hell, even a few _months_ previously, Molly would have declined them politely, but firmly. Her life was in London. Everything and everyone she loved was here. And, though she hated herself for it, she still held out a tiny ray of hope that Sherlock would reciprocate her love. In any form.

But following his 'death,' the Janine fiasco and the whole drug-Magnussen-exile debacle, Molly seemed to have been relegated back to the status of 'asset.' And it wasn't until the Faux-Moriarty mystery had been solved that Molly realized if she didn't say anything, Sherlock would forever see her as wallpaper to his life, a background tool at his convenience. She needed an answer. She had been wandering the line between what could be with Sherlock and moving on for far too long.

So, this night, with no one around to interrupt, Molly gathered her courage. Sherlock had already swept from the lab, once his experiments had been completed. Struggling to get her arm in her coat, Molly rushed after him. He had kept her in the lab for hours after her shift and night had descended upon London like a thick blanket. A few cabs wandered down the street and a cool breeze whipped her hair in her face as she stepped outside. Sherlock was stepping up to the curb about to raise a hand and hail a cab.

'Sherlock!'

He turned at her call, an annoyed quirk of his eyebrow the only indication he was listening.

'Sherlock, wait,' Molly said breathily as she hurried to catch up. Standing now in front of him, she felt her heart racing, her entire body trembling in nervousness.

'Yes, Molly?' He sighed exasperatedly.

Clearing her throat, Molly smiled briefly and straightened her shoulders. 'There's something I've been… I mean, I need to tell you…'

He clasped his hands behind his back and waited expectantly, if not disinterestedly.

With a deep breath, Molly forged ahead, staring intently at her twisting hands. 'I've been offered a position in Edinburgh. And am strongly considering accepting it.' She paused and looked at him hopefully. 'Unless you think there's a reason for me to stay.'

He tilted his head in question, as his eyes narrowed.

'The thing is,' Molly continued. 'I love you.'

Sherlock blinked in surprise.

'I mean, I'm _in love _with you. And I know you don't… don't _feel _the same way. But I think you feel something for me. And I was hoping…' She braved a look at his face and the corner of her mouth lifted tremulously. '…that maybe you would be willing to experiment in a relationship with me.'

Silence descended between them as Molly waited for Sherlock to respond. He had retreated into his Mind Palace, his face clear of emotion.

Several minutes passed in nerve-wracking anticipation, for Molly, at least. Her heart pounded almost painfully as her heartstrings seemed to strain in hopeful expectancy.

Finally, Sherlock's eyes focused on her once more. Molly smiled hopefully, but her timid joy dimmed as Sherlock's lips curls slightly.

'I think not,' he said coldly and simply. 'And you should take the position.'

Her arms dropped to her sides. 'May… May I ask why?'

'The position in Edinburgh, which I'm assuming is at the Royal Infirmary, will do wonders for your, so far, stagnant career. As for your _feelings_,' his face wrinkled in derision at the word. 'The benefits of a romantic relationship are significantly outweighed by its detractions. There is also the added risk that inevitably you will be heartbroken, whether by realizing that I will _never_ return your affections nor will I be the significant other you have made me up to be in your pathetically romanticized fantasies.'

Molly swallowed thickly, a lump forming in her throat and tears gathering in her eyes. 'I haven't made you up to be anything other than who you are. I love _you._' Her voice broke at the end.

'Foolishly, too,' he sneered. 'You are a capable, intelligent woman. Don't reduce yourself to mindless fantasies of romance and 'happily ever after'.'

Turning around suddenly, he raised his hand and hailed a cab, sliding in gracefully. Molly watched in heartbroken shock until it turned the corner, her mind incapable of forming words.

As his dismissal replayed in her mind, her heartstrings gave one last cry of anguish before finally snapping, leaving her chest hollow and cold; a deep ache swallowing her whole.

With hesitant steps, she eventually turned around and walked in the opposite direction, unaware of the tears flowing rapidly down her frozen cheeks.

* * *

'And I left.' Sherlock finished his story with a dismissive, uncaring tone. Mycroft instantly recognized it as his brother's way of disassociating himself from the emotions the story elicited.

'Because you are afraid.'

To Mycroft's surprise, and relief, Sherlock nodded in agreement. One less step in getting Sherlock to surrender to the emotions he'd buried for so long.

'Afraid that she _will _discover that you are not who she thinks you are. And that she _will _leave you. But you aren't worried so much for her heart as you are for your own.'

Sherlock gulped and averted his eyes.

'How foolish, brother mine.' Mycroft chastised. 'Allowing yourself to feel is a risk. And it is worth it. There is always a chance that the woman you love will leave, voluntarily or involuntarily.' He had to force himself not to focus on the sudden images of Anne being taken from him. Sherlock had finally discarded his mask of disinterest and was looking at him in child-like vulnerability. 'But even if that were ever to happen, would not the time you spent with her be that much more precious?'

'It doesn't matter,' Sherlock snapped. 'I gave in to sentiment, and she left anyway. I took that risk and, because I have broken her again and again, she wouldn't believe me.'

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. 'Indeed.'

Sherlock placed his head in his shackled hands and groaned. 'There wasn't enough time. I am capable of solving the most complex of puzzles, of deceiving the world into believing I died, of so many things, but convincing the woman I love that I was wrong... _that _I am incapable of.'

'And if you had the time?' Mycroft prompted.

'I would...' Sherlock broke off as his eyes suddenly filled with uncharacteristic tears. _How cliche._ He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.'I would tell her that she is everything to me. And she has a power over me that is frightening, as though she is the puppetmaster of my heart. It scares me. No.' He frowned. 'It _scared_ me. I'm still afraid of what she might do to my heart, but I am willing to take that risk. And, if she is willing to risk her heart again, I would cherish it, cherish _her_, until my last breath. I'll wait, for however long it takes, until she trusts me again. And I will make sure she knows she is loved, I will spend every day undoing the hurt I've inflicted on her, if only she would take one more chance on me.'

A smile stretched across Mycroft's face as he listened to his brother. _Finally. _While Sherlock's eyes were closed in defeat, Mycroft glanced behind him at the mirror and signaled Anne. 'I am proud of you, Sherlock.'

Sherlock started at the unexpected praise from his brother and watched warily as Mycroft stood and walked to the door. The latch clicked and he pulled it open slowly, letting Anne enter.

Sherlock's heart nearly stopped as another person followed Anne into the room.

'Molly,' he breathed.


	10. Molly

_A/N: Thanks for your patience! And much love to Buttercup59 and MizJoely for looking over this chapter as it refused to be easily written! _

* * *

The door shut behind Mycroft and his assistant, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone.

Molly's hands shook, hell, her entire body was trembling as she took in Sherlock's wide-eyed surprise. Clearing her throat nervously, she whispered, 'Hello.'

He didn't respond. She wrung her hands in the silence, walking over to the chair Mycroft had vacated and slowly lowering herself into it, Sherlock's eyes following her absently.

Sherlock's words rang loudly in her mind, the passion and sincerity she'd seen in his eyes as he spoke shook her resolve to the core. The heartstrings he'd so cruelly torn lifted in hope at his earnest admission, but her mind choked them in doubt.

Molly closed her eyes, trying to bring compromise between her doubtful mind and her hopeful heart. The silence hung heavily between them, neither knowing what to say. Sherlock hadn't done more than blink until the question burning in Molly's mind rushed forth and burst from her lips. 'Did you mean it?'

Sherlock flinched and his gaze shot back to her, the intensity shocking her to the core. 'I rarely say anything I do not mean.'

Molly looked down at her shaking hands, clenching them tightly in her lap, and trying to blink away the tears filling her eyes. 'You called me the 'puppet master of your heart.' Even I know that's not a flattering comparison.'

The handcuffs rattled slightly as he moved his hand across the table, as close to Molly as he could reach. She stared at the spread of his hand, wavering on that tightrope of uncertainty.

'It was neither a compliment nor an insult,' he said evenly. 'But if you prefer a different analogy, more fanciful, I will say that you are like an angel and I, your harp; you pluck my heartstrings in a beautiful melody. Beautiful, but frightening in its intensity.'

A tear escaped and curved down her cheek, her heart slowly beating to life once more. His eyes were open and his face, usually so stone-cold, was a study in vulnerability.

He turned his head away. 'I understand if I am not deserving of a second chance. But I am deeply,' he paused and took a deep breath, turning to face her once more. 'I am deeply sorry. In protecting my own heart, I broke yours. I was selfish and cruel.'

Molly watched him intently for a few minutes, choosing her words carefully, but unable to rein in her biting tone. 'I know that. I've always known that. You are a man who overthinks logic and undervalues emotions. Your ends justify the means, so if by breaking my heart you save yourself heartache in the future, then so be it. 'All lives end. All hearts are broken.' Isn't that the Holmes boys' motto?'

'No,' Sherlock spit out immediately, staring at her intensely. 'No, it's not. At one point, that may have been my philosophy and I refused to open myself to the inevitability of emotional pain.' His eyes softened and he lifted his hand as though to caress her cheek, but was halted by his restraints, letting his hand fall back in defeat. 'But now, I would gladly die knowing I had loved and been loved in return, rather than die alone and broken-hearted with not even the memory of being loved to hold on to, only regret for destroying it when it was offered to me.'

Tears blurred her vision at the quiet sincerity in his voice. The past few months passed through her thoughts, the pain and heartbreak, the bitterness and sorrow. All of it culminating in this moment.

'This is… I don't know what to do.'

Sherlock's eyes lit with a small flame of hope.

Lowering the mask she'd worn over her heart and her stiff upper lip failing, Molly stared back at him, letting him see all of the hurt he'd inflicted on her, no longer trying to shield him from her pain. 'If you loved someone with everything you had,' she rasped, 'unconditionally, and time and again that person tore you down with cruel words… before finally destroying that little bit of love that still beat for you… would you really expect her to accept your love?'

He blanched, but quietly admitted, 'No.'

Molly turned away at the brokenness in his voice.

'But I hope for it.'

* * *

Mycroft watched unashamedly from behind the mirror, his fingers twitching in agitation as Molly fell silent after Sherlock's quiet plea. He knew Molly had every reason to turn away, leave Sherlock handcuffed to the table, and get on the plane to Edinburgh, breaking his brother's heart. But he hoped, prayed, wished, pleaded that she would be willing to forgive him.

Every time he looked at Sherlock with his face lined in sorrow and pain and tentative hope, Mycroft's heart cracked a tiny bit more, remembering the little curly-haired boy curled around his dying dog, begging Redbeard not to leave him. Thirty years later, the words were caught in Sherlock's throat, but the fear was the same and it poured off Sherlock in waves.

_Please, Molly. He's trying._

* * *

Molly twisted her hands in her lap. Sherlock could see her heartbeat pounding against her throat. 'Seven years. I waited, I pined, pathetically, apparently.'

Sherlock grimaced as she tossed his own careless words back at him.

'What changed? Why now?'

'You.'

'That's not an answer,' she growled through clenched teeth.

'Yes, it is.' He swallowed thickly, trying to find the words to convey his thoughts, to make her understand. 'You changed my mind. You showed me that love isn't just an emotion, it's a promise, it's a choice to care for someone in spite of all their flaws; strength in weakness.'

Molly's eyes flashed and she leaned her arms on the table, clenching her fists and nearly snapping at him. 'Your flaws, everything you think that is wrong with you… those are the things that make you amazing. You hide behind cruel deductions, but I see the heart yearning for acceptance. You say sentiment is a weakness, but you're really afraid that you're not good enough to be loved. And I spent seven goddamn years telling you that you were! Until I believed that I was the one who wasn't good enough!'

Slapping her hands loudly on the table, she jumped up as she shouted the end of her speech and turned her back on him. Every word pierced Sherlock's aching heart. He stared at her back in stupefaction as she sniffled and brushed away angry tears.

Several minutes passed as Molly composed herself, but she didn't turn around, not even looking at Sherlock's reflection in the mirror. He held his breath in the silence, his heart thundering in hopeful anxiety, even as the ache in his gut grew at her pain. In the mirror, he could make out the fear on her face, the doubt swallowing her whole. But beneath all of the confusion and despair he'd masterfully wrapped her in with his cruelty, he could see the remainder of her love for him, simply because she was still in the room. There was still a chance she would act on that small smidgen of feeling she felt for him.

Molly crossed her arms over her chest, but still refused to look at him, keeping her gaze low as she sighed. 'I'm not the ninny everyone thinks I am. My track record with boyfriends leaves a lot to be desired, but I know…' She took a shaky breath and a tear trailed down her cheek. 'I know I'm worthy of being loved…I know it, but I don't believe it.'

Sherlock damned the cuffs locking him to the table. The defeat in Molly's stature and tone shattered his heart and all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and hold her until she was his Molly again; his Molly who was sunshine and optimism, who was brave and strong and wore her heart on her sleeve and who loved him with an unconditional love that made him believe that sentiment was the winning side.

'Molly,' he croaked, reaching out as far as he could, beckoning her to look at him. 'Molly, please look at me.'

She shook her head as her shoulders began shaking, tears falling freely now.

'Molly, you are worthy of someone who will love you as unconditionally as you once loved me. If you can't believe it yourself, please, believe _me._ ' His voice broke as his heart clenched at each tear that fell from her tired eyes. 'You are far more than I deserve. Forgive me for making you believe you weren't good enough.'

She finally turned to face him. 'What do you want from me?' She asked in defeat, dropping her hands limply to the side. 'You treat me so cruelly, push me away, and break my heart. Then you tell me you love me when I decide to leave, expecting me to fall into your arms in gratitude. And then you tell me all these things and I… I…' She trailed off hopelessly.

'I want _you_. I love you, Molly. I'm selfish and I won't stop fighting to convince you that you are loved. But if I've ruined whatever chance I may have had, I'll accept the consequences and let you move on with your life and find someone who _is _worthy of you. But just one word from you that I haven't…'

His heart pounded in fear as she stared at him in the silence following his plea. He could see the war she was fighting between doubt and hope. She bit her lip and looked away in deliberation, her brow creased.

Sherlock swallowed against the lump in his throat. Sweat dripped down his back and somewhere outside muffled footsteps interrupted the silence.

She turned her gaze back to him and sighed. 'I still love you… but I can't forgive you.'

His heart stopped.

'Not yet, at least.'

It started beating again, double time, as he released the breath he had been holding.

Molly took a step closer and wrung her hands together. 'I'm willing to start over, though.'

A flutter of hope reverberated across his heartstrings. 'What about Edinburgh?'

She shrugged one shoulder and glanced down. 'Perhaps I can give London another chance.'

A smile slowly spread across his face and an unfamiliar feeling swept over him. _This must be what relief and joy feel like._ He felt light and hopeful, his heart skipping a beat when Molly gave him a timid smile in return.

'May I take you to dinner tonight?'

'I'd like that.' She offered him a soft smile and pulled the key Mycroft had given her out of her pocket.

* * *

Behind the mirror, watching as Molly released Sherlock from his handcuffs, Mycroft smiled proudly. Anthea sidled up to him and slipped under his arm.

'Are all you Holmes boys poets at heart?' She smiled coyly up at him. 'Because I seem to recall a certain haiku you wrote for me about my being the salvation to your devilry?'

Lowering his voice, Mycroft brushed his lips against her hairline. 'Oh, my dear. We both know who the devil is in this relationship.'


	11. Molly & Sherlock

Once Molly had released Sherlock's restraints, Mycroft ushered them through the winding halls of the airport, passed various officers without comment (though many shot Mycroft and Sherlock fearful looks) and into a black, unmarked car. Sherlock slid in beside her while Mycroft and the BlackBerry woman sat across from them.

In her oversized cardigan and baggy trousers, Molly felt completely out of place with the immaculately dressed couple. Noticing immediately her self-consciousness, in his own silent way, Sherlock tried to reassure her, placing his hand next to hers on the seat and brushing his little finger atop hers in silent acknowledgement. Molly glanced down at his touch, trying to sort out the confusing rush of feelings the display of sentiment elicited.

Even after everything, there was still a tiny thread of doubt in the back of her mind. It was all so overwhelming. She wasn't sure she was ready to accept his affectionate display, afraid for her heart.

Slowly, she pulled her hand into her lap and clasped them tightly.

Against the seat between them, Sherlock's hand fell softly, but he did not retract it, leaving it there in silent invitation.

Molly ignored the sight, and her tugging heartstrings, choosing instead to stare out the window as London passed by.

London. Her gaze flew to Mycroft's. 'Where will I stay? My flat's been let and all my belongings are-'

'-currently en route to a suitable replacement flat here in London,' Mycroft smoothly interjected over her panic.

Molly blinked in surprise. 'Oh.'

Anthea smirked behind her BlackBerry. 'It's a lovely place. The landlady is a dear and delighted to have you as a temporary tenant. However, she oversees another tenant who is somewhat less than desirable.'

Beside her, Sherlock rolled his eyes and grumbled, 'Must you be so impolite, _Annie_.'

Mycroft raised a hand to end the glaring contest between the two and smiled as politely as he could at Molly, bordering on slightly creepy. 'In case _Anthea_ wasn't clear enough, I've arranged for you to stay in Doctor Watson's former living quarters at Baker Street until a suitable flat has been procured.'

'Erm,' Molly bit her lip. 'Are you sure that's a good idea?'

Sherlock turned to face her, eyes wide with hurt. 'I assure you, I am an adequate flatmate, as John can attest.'

Molly furrowed her brow in thought as she wrung her hands together. 'It's not that…'

'You're concerned that being in such close proximity will make you feel pressured to accept a relationship you're not ready for,' Mycroft deduced in his usual cool, calculated way. But his eyes were soft in understanding.

Molly swallowed and nodded, her cheeks burning in embarrassment.

'Molly,' Sherlock murmured and placed his hand over hers. 'I won't pressure you. I'll wait until you're ready, even if you never are. I don't want to force you to accept me, but I want to give us a chance.'

Suddenly very aware of Mycroft and Anthea's presence, Molly flushed even more and ducked her head. 'I know, I just…'

She didn't know how to explain it. Every reason she could come up with just sounded like a lame excuse. Turning her head to look up at Sherlock, she bit her lip. 'Will you promise to give me time… and space?'

Sherlock nodded emphatically, a serious expression on his face, but Molly could see the gleam of triumph in his eyes.

'Very well,' she sighed and turned to Mycroft. 'Take me to Baker Street.'

* * *

Glancing around the simple room with its single bed, Molly bit her lip worriedly.

'Settling in?'

She turned around at Sherlock's voice from the doorway to see him leaning against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets. He pushed away from the wall and sauntered closer, making his way through the small sea of cardboard boxes.

Molly sighed and moved another box from John's… _her_ bed to the floor. 'For now.'

'If you're still uncomfortable with this situation, I can set Mummy on Mycroft to speed up his search for another flat.'

She breathed out a laugh and shook her head. 'No, it's fine.' She glanced away as she repeated, 'For now.'

He narrowed his eyes at her and sighed. 'You're still doubting.'

_Damn him and his deductions_. 'A little. I think once I get a good night's rest and let reality sink in, I'll come around.' She grinned ruefully up at him, trying to lighten the somber mood. 'It may take some time. I spent a lot of years daydreaming about this… well, not _this_, but you… likin-loving me.'

She rubbed a hand over her forehead and forced a laugh. 'That will definitely take a while to be real.'

Suddenly, Sherlock was right in front of her, his hand cupping her cheek and lifting her gaze to his. 'I promise, Molly. It's real. I love you. Whether or not you ever decide to be with me, I will always love you.'

She wanted to believe him, but here in the quiet after the emotional storm, the doubts were rising up. A lump formed in her throat and tears blurred her eyes as she whispered, 'How can I be sure?'

'Just… trust me.' He looked down at her pleadingly, a tender, hopeful smile on his face. For an instant, Molly wanted him to cross the distance and kiss her, to show her his feelings were real.

But he stepped away. She closed her eyes, relieved. A kiss would only confuse her more, make her feel pressured to accept something she wasn't ready to.

He held his hand out in invitation and smiled softly. 'So, how about that dinner?'

She stared at his hand, anxious and unsure. _All it takes is one step, Molly_. She silenced the doubts in her mind and focused on that first step. A leap of faith. And trust.

Taking a deep breath, she smiled and slid her hand into his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and protective.

As he led her out of the room, she felt her broken heart begin to heal, its battered and broken heartstrings slowly rethreading back to life. And when he shyly pulled her close as they stepped out into the rain, shielding them with the umbrella he stole from Mycroft, she felt her hurt begin to fade.

She couldn't forgive him today; no, the hurt went too deep for that. But each timid brush of his thumb across her knuckles, each hesitant glance out of the corner of his eye to make sure she was still there, was another reason for her to keep trying.

* * *

_AN: Thank you, my wonderful dears, for all your favs, reviews, follows, and encouragement! This story was a crazy ride for me as a writer and though I'm relieved to be finished, I'm going to miss coming up with more angsty Conspiracy ideas. :) A bonus thank you to my lovely Betas, MizJoely and Buttercup59, for all their help!_


	12. Merry Christmas: An Epilogue

_Surprise! I thought you all might enjoy an epilogue of sorts. :) Many thanks to MizJoely and Buttercup59 for their Brit-picking and Beta-ing! _

* * *

**Five Months Later**

'Why are we doing this, why is this becoming a _tradition_?' Mycroft screwed his face in disgust at the word, his pout only slightly mollified by Anthea's pacifying kiss on his cheek. She giggled and wiped the faint smudge of lipstick she left, bestowing one of her rare smiles on him. How he deserved her, he'd never know.

His brief bout of joy was smacked out of him as Mummy came into the room, drying her hands with her weapon of choice, a hand-knit festive towel. 'Behave, Myc. It's Christmas and we are a family and we're going to spend it together. Now budge up, they'll be here soon and you'll need to make room!'

'Mummy, you don't need to try to push Anthea and me together. We already _are_!' Mycroft sighed exasperatedly and rubbed the back of his head, but scooted closer to his wife anyway. He pretended not to notice the smirk on either of their faces when he pulled Anthea's hand into his lap and fiddled with the shiny new wedding ring on her finger.

The crunch of gravel sounded from outside, followed by the slamming of multiple car doors.

'Oh, they're here! Myc, come help with the luggage!' Mummy gushed, rushing to pull her apron off and open the door. Her joyous cries carried through the house as she greeted the recent arrivals. 'Martha, oh it's good to see you, come in, come in! John! Mary! Oh, you look wonderful- and you, too, Billie! My goodness, you must be nearly twice as tall as you were last time I saw you! Oh, I've just been waiting for a hug from my Billie-girl! Sherlock, hand her over to her Nana... Sherlock, she may not be my biological grandchild, but she is close enough and I want a hug... _William Sherlock Scott Holmes, don't be selfish!_'

Her chastisements carried on as Mycroft and Anthea sniggered. They could hear the audible grunt of disappointment when Sherlock relinquished his hold on the young Watson child. Mycroft's brief amusement, however, was cut short by Mummy's piercing demand as she strode into the room, Billie bundled in her arms.

'Mycroft! Go help!'

Sighing heavily, he brushed his lips against Anthea's temple and whispered, 'Must we stay for a week, my dear? I hear Switzerland is awfully beautiful this time of year…' He quirked his eyebrow, half-heartedly trying to coerce her into ditching this upcoming family fiasco.

Anthea shook her head fondly and pushed him from the couch with a laugh. 'No!'

* * *

Tea had been served after everyone had settled in, their packages and bags settled in their rooms and their faces finally thawing in the warmth of the fire. The chatter continued for some time, until the front door opened and let in a gust of snow-laden wind.

'Sorry I'm late.' Everyone turned toward the door as a festively-bundled Molly walked in, her cheeks flushed from the biting cold. Mycroft pulled Anthea closer when she shuddered against the chill.

Sherlock immediately jumped up and strode over to her, pulling her bags from her hand and tossing them carelessly to the side. 'Molly! You were supposed to call so I could pick you up from the station,' he admonished her, pulling the damp gloves from her hands and holding her frozen fingers tightly in his against his chest in an effort to warm them up.

If possible, Molly's cold-reddened cheeks darkened further at his show of caring and his offer. 'That's all right, I just caught a cab. The last one, too. He's heading home now for the holiday, but he was so sweet to take me, said I was on his way anyway. And I didn't want to be a bother and have someone drive all the way down just to get me because I had to work a late shift.'

'But…' Sherlock frowned and glanced around self-consciously before lowering his head and dropping his voice to a whisper. 'Isn't that what… well, _boyfriends_, do?'

Easily reading Sherlock's lips and noting Molly's pleased, yet flustered, smile, Mycroft dropped his head back and sighed in relief. _Thank every last deity known to mankind, that boy finally made things right._

Molly proceeded to lift herself onto her toes and reward his consideration with a kiss, silently announcing to the room the official nature of their relationship.

Mary gasped in delight and a chorus of 'awws' rang throughout the room. Sherlock blushed furiously as they broke apart and turned toward the rest of the room, but he boldly slipped his hand over Molly's and kept her close, leading her into the stunned fray.

A nudge at his ribs brought Mycroft's attention down to his wife, who was beaming up at him in pride. 'Well done, you,' she whispered. If possible, his heart swelled even more under her praise.

Sherlock and Molly moved toward the center of the room, where Sherlock began the introductions. 'Molly, this is my mother, Violet Holmes.' Mummy, this is Molly Hooper, my-' He stumbled back in surprise as Mummy rushed over and enveloped Molly in a crushing hug, the last word barely making it past his lips, '-girlfriend.'

'Oh, my dear, it's so wonderful to meet you,' Mummy gushed. 'Come, sit with me. I've heard so much about you from Sherlock…'

Molly raised her eyebrows and glanced back at Sherlock, holding back her laughter at his petulant pout, and allowed herself to be led to the sofa.

Mycroft grinned wickedly as the conversation quickly delved into a synopsis of Sherlock's childhood and the, now unnecessary, worry that he'd never find someone to put up with him.

_Perhaps there was something to this 'family' Christmas, after all._

* * *

Dinner was a chaotic event with people jostling about the table, handing dishes over each other, the occasional accidental elbow jab (and more often the purposeful one, Mycroft would have a bruise in his ribs the exact shape of Sherlock's bony elbow), and conversations topping one another until nobody knew to whom they were actually speaking.

Mycroft inwardly sneered at the cliché family meal it appeared to be. But by the contented smile on Anthea's face as she chattered away about proper gun cleaning etiquette with Mary, he knew it was far from normal.

The table was very nearly cleared of food and lethargy was beginning to set in when things went a bit awry. Mycroft should have planned for it, but being unprepared for emotional complications, he had not even considered the possibility. Mummy had been holding a passionate conversation with Molly about theatre, having found a kindred spirit.

'I adore Lés Mis,' Molly gushed. 'You should come to London, we'll see it together! Sherlock never takes me, he _hates_ the theatre. Won't sit still or stay quiet long enough to actually enjoy the play.'

Sherlock grumbled beside her as Mummy laughed.

'Well, the next time we're in London, I will take you up on that! God knows, if I force Myc or Sherlock into accompanying me one more time, I'll have a rebellion on my hands!'

Molly giggled. 'We'll make a day of it! We'll go to the park and, _oh_!' She grinned widely, 'I'll take you to my favourite café for coffee! They have the most delicious pastries, too.'

'Oh, they do make the best blueberry scones there!' Mummy sighed. 'Just thinking about them makes me want one.'

'Don't you think you've eaten enough already?' Papa teased. Mummy just rolled her eyes at him.

Mycroft, however, was watching Molly, a sinking feeling in his gut. She had fallen silent at his mother's slip of the tongue, and her brow was furrowed in confusion as she tilted her head in thought and stared at his mother.

Suddenly, her eyes widened and she let out a loud gasp.

'Molly?' Sherlock queried. The table fell silent as everyone turned to Molly, whose face burned a deep red.

'I thought you looked familiar... and not just in how Sherlock resembles you.' She glanced at Sherlock briefly before she turned back to his mother and quietly said, 'You… you were the lady in the café.'

'Crap,' Mary whispered as Martha ducked her head in worry.

Mummy pursed her lips at Molly's words and nodded, chagrined. 'I was.'

'What lady in the café?' Sherlock looked between his mother and his girlfriend, clearly frustrated that he wasn't able to deduce what was happening.

'I… I met your mother before,' Molly responded in a stunned voice. 'Before I… she was at the café the day before I left. W-we… talked.'

'What did you do?' Sherlock turned on Mummy with a scowl.

'Something you should be grateful for! How else were we supposed to make you realise you were meant for each other?' Mummy defended herself, crossing her arms. 'It worked, didn't it?'

'_What_ worked? And who is '_we_'?!' Sherlock bit out angrily.

Mummy turned to look at Mycroft, everyone following suit. Staring back at Sherlock resolutely, Mycroft saw the moment all the pieces fell into place in his brother's mind. The frown on the detective's face deepened for a moment, a silent threat to never meddle again, before vanishing entirely with a nod of his head. Coming from Sherlock, that was a grand gesture of thanks.

'I'm afraid our conspiracy has been uncovered,' Mycroft glanced around at his co-conspirators, completely avoiding Molly's piercing gaze. John and Papa, the only ones not involved, watched in confusion. 'Excuse me, I believe I need some air. Mary, if you would please explain.'

'Mary?' John's shocked voice followed Mycroft as he grabbed his coat from the peg by the door and slid outside. He knew it was the coward's way out, but he didn't have it in him to face Molly's hurt for manipulating her and causing her so much pain through his scheme. Not yet. To have everyone dissect his reasons, sentimental as they were, would be a humiliating experience and he would like to postpone it as long as possible.

Pulling out the pack of cigarettes he'd stashed away in his coat that Anthea pretended not to know about, he lit one up and pulled in a breath, letting the familiar scent and feeling soak into his very bones, then exhaling, imagining all the embarrassment being expelled from his body.

How long he stood there, he didn't know, but he was nearly three cigarettes in when his thoughts were interrupted.

'Ahem.'

He whirled around at the hesitant cough, hiding the cigarette behind his back. But instead of Mummy's disapproving frown, he found himself staring at a very bashful Molly. She'd wrapped her ridiculously long scarf around her neck, her only precaution against the cold, though she did not seem too bothered by it in her large, festive jumper.

'Don't worry,' she smiled. 'I won't tell.'

He simply quirked an eyebrow in response and brought the cigarette back to his lips, taking another lazy drag.

Molly walked down the short path to stand beside him and they stared out over the sprawling hills leading away from the quaint cottage in silence for a time.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her take a deep breath and exhale, the cold clinging to her breath before vanishing into the bitter air. He braced himself for her hurt and anger at his 'playing God' with the relationship between her and his brother.

But once again, Molly Hooper surprised him.

'Thank you.'

…

_What_?

He blinked at her soft, but firm words.

Before he could fully process what she had said, she suddenly turned toward him and, on tiptoes, pressed a kiss to his cheek. He froze, slowly turning his head to stare down at her. A fond smile pulled at her lips and her eyes sparkled with understanding. This woman, who once seemed so inconsequential, had turned their whole perception of sentiment upside down with her unending capacity for love and forgiveness. He knew he would call her sister one day, if Sherlock knew what was good for him. And he would be proud to do so.

He found himself grinning back at her, from relief and from actual happiness, the action unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Molly gave him one last beaming smile before turning to go back inside.

He didn't know why he said it, but the words seemed to come out on their own, falling in the cold air with finality. 'I once told Sherlock that his loss would break my heart.'

She froze, her hand on the doorknob, and turned to look back at him, her eyes soft with understanding.

Flicking the remains of his cigarette into the compost bin, he flipped up the collar of his coat against the bitter wind and turned toward her. 'Losing you would break both of ours. Without you, Sherlock was a broken shadow of himself. And I never want to see him that way again. I don't regret manipulating you. I am sorry for any unnecessary pain I caused or inflicted in the process, but from my perspective, the ends have justified the means.'

Molly stared at him for a moment in thought. A small smile slowly broke over her face, free of condemnation and full of understanding, and he felt the burden of guilt he'd been carrying lift. She understood why he had done what he did, why he had manipulated them... and she forgave him.

Just as she opened the door to slip back inside, she turned to him and said, 'Happy Christmas, Mycroft.'

'Happy Christmas, Molly Hooper.'


End file.
